


Hearing and Feeling (Are Two Different Things)

by BabylonsFall



Category: Leverage
Genre: Eliot Spencer-centric, Episode Tag, Episode: s05e09 The Rundown Job, F/M, Gen, Introspection, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Pining, Pre-OT3, but Not Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 20:11:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19708552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabylonsFall/pseuds/BabylonsFall
Summary: After D.C.Eliot ached.Not just the new holes - the new to-be scars added to an already harsh landscape that had been pitted and gutted so many times, Eliot could sometimes swear the stitches were all that were holding him together…Sure, those hurt.But heached.And that was...that was different.





	Hearing and Feeling (Are Two Different Things)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the rambly and self-indulgent mess that came from rewatching the Rundown Job.
> 
> Enjoy!

After D.C.

After…

God.

After _D.C._

Eliot ached.

Not just the new holes - the new to-be scars added to an already harsh landscape that had been pitted and gutted so many times, Eliot could sometimes swear the stitches were all that were holding him together…

Sure, those hurt.

But he _ached_.

And that was...that was different.

This was something vital twisting in his chest as he tries to convince Hardison he’s not terrified - not scared out of his damn mind, because Hardison needs him not to be.

This was the ache that came from unfilled lungs - refusing to breathe as Parker disarmed the bomb - and the ache that came from fingers curled too hard in fabric that fell away too quick as Hardison and Parker collapsed into each other.

This was…

 _This_ was looking Parker in the eye, knowing exactly what she was going to do - what he was going to do - and knowing it was all going right over Hardison’s head. This was knowing there was no time to convince Hardison - no time to explain.

This was leaving Hardison while the two of them tried desperately not to fail.

Knowing that if she failed, D.C. would die. Knowing that if he failed, Hardison and Parker would.

(Maniacs with guns didn’t tend to be forgiving.)

His lungs burning as they finally filled again, with gulping, gasping breaths as he lay on the floor of the train car, bleeding sluggishly onto the filthy floor, and trying not to laugh when he heard Hardison tell Parker not to do _that_. Like there was anything else she could do.

All of that had been hours ago.

Seven hours and sixteen minutes to be exact.

They’d decided to stay in D.C. for another two days - to relax, to rest, to breathe.

And, even if they wouldn’t admit it, to give Eliot a few days before he had to deal with the mess that was being injured on a plane.

So, here they were, seven hours and seventeen minutes later, in a hotel that cost too much, doing their best to sleep off the last twenty-four hours.

Well. That wasn’t entirely true.

Hardison and Parker were sleeping off the last twenty-four hours - he could hear them, in the room behind him. Deep, even breathing, the occasional snore and the rustle of sheets.

This high up, with the sound of traffic below them muffled to a dull white noise, the sounds of them alive and resting easy were easy to focus on.

He’d known walking away from that ambulance that he wouldn’t be sleeping tonight. Probably not the next night either. Not until they were back in Portland - back home. Where he could curl up in his quiet apartment, and pretend that he was still in one piece.

Honestly, he was more than a little thankful that both of them were used to his habits by now - the general insomnia, the hyper-vigilence, the focus on vantage points normally only Parker would think about. Him hanging out on the balcony of their two-bedroom suite at one in the morning wasn’t all that unusual, in the grand scheme of things.

As long as they chalked it up to stubbornness about pain pills and insomnia, he was fine.

He watched as the thinned out traffic below twisted and turned on too-narrow streets, fading in and out of pools of light from the street lamps, their own headlights little more than sparkling blinks, and rubbed his thumb over his sternum, absent-mindedly.

There was an ache there - one that had started shortening his breath the second Hardison took him at his word, had trusted him enough to calm down and put that amazing, beautiful brain to work, and hadn’t faded since.

It wasn’t a new ache. Not really. He’s felt it before, time and time again.

His heart dropping into his stomach when the Russians grabbed Hardison. Having to stop, think, plan before going and getting Parker away and out of Wakefield.

Hearing the pain in Parker’s voice while he tells her they can’t do the right thing. Having to hold still with Hardison drowning behind him. Hearing Hardison through the comms gasping for breath, and Parker trying not to break.

That ache was a familiar thing, taking up space in his chest, refusing to let him breathe without acknowledging it.

Today just...drove it home.

It wasn’t going to go away.

And he...wasn’t so sure he wanted it to, either.

He felt more than heard Parker approaching behind him. The soft rustle of the sheets had stopped, and he was pretty sure, if he looked behind him, he’d see Hardison sitting on the edge of the bed, scrubbing a hand down his face.

Parker, on the other hand, was at his side a moment later, perching on the small end table next to Eliot’s chair.

“Is he doing that weird, insomniac brooding thing again?” Hardison calls, voice rusty and muffled, clearly still half asleep.

Eliot hides the quirk he can feel at the corner of his mouth with a roll of his eyes. And Parker just snorts.

“I think so.” She calls back, eyes staying on him. “The question is, why.” It’s not really a question and they both know it, so Eliot stays quiet, watching the traffic below them again. “You’re supposed to be resting. That whole thing about getting shot twice, you know?”

And that is a question, even if it’s a sarcastic one, so Eliot shrugs - one shouldered, since the other is still wrapped up tight - “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Couldn’t sleep ‘cause something’s not right, or couldn’t sleep ‘cause you’re you?” Hardison asks, sounding closer than before. A quick glance back shows him leaning in the balcony doorway, arms crossed loosely over his chest against the wind, eyes glassy and bright.

Eliot rolls his eyes a touch too obviously, just for him. “‘Cause I’m me.”

Neither of them look too convinced. But he figures getting shot’s gotta be useful for something so he huffs, shifts, and winces slightly, ‘cause even if he is playing it up a bit, that shit did still hurt, “Couldn’t get comfortable.”

Parker’s expression changes - not by much, ‘cause he can’t completely lie to her, and he doesn’t want to, and she can definitely tell something else is up - but enough. Shifts to exasperated understanding instead of exasperated puzzling.

Hardison just grumbles something about stubborn hitters that should take their pain meds - but Eliot can hear the fond thread, tumbling out with the griping. And he wonders exactly when Hardison stopped hiding it.

“...We’ll change our flight to tomorrow. Get us home a bit earlier.” Get him to his own bed earlier, Eliot hears, and he flashes Parker a small, grateful smile.

Parker nods - problem solved - and slides off the table to pad back inside. He feels the brush of tricky fingers along the back of his good shoulder, and then she’s gone. Hardison doesn’t say anything that Eliot can hear - though he thinks something must pass between Hardison and Parker, even if he can’t be sure - but he does hear the soft shuffle of tired feet, and he can feel the warmth of another body behind him a moment later.

Hardison still doesn’t say anything. Instead, Eliot feels a heavy hand resting on his shoulder for a moment. A squeeze, and it’s gone, with footsteps padding back into the room behind him.

The ache in his chest blooms bright with a desire he doesn’t really want to put a name to just yet.

(To follow them both, to hold them close, to feel them alive and breathing, not just hear it.)

(To stay.)

He doesn’t want the ache to go away, no. His hand comes up to brush against his sternum again as his eyes turn upwards this time. There’s too many lights, too close, to make out much of the night sky, the warm orange haze of the city leeching up, up, up, blocking out all but the brightest of stars on nights like this - but, if he squints, he can pretend to see the constellations he knows dot the sky.

He doesn’t want the ache to go away.

(But, maybe, just maybe, he’ll put a name to it soon.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are always loved and adored, you have no idea! ^^


End file.
